


this particular brand of hell

by conchorde



Series: running from; going to [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Reunion Fic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, yet another juno is sad fic i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-12 08:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15336078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchorde/pseuds/conchorde
Summary: He was not ready to die and then he was ready to die and then he was not dead for the second time in as many weeks.[Or; in which Nureyev never really left Mars.]





	1. impulsive choices

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever had a bad idea for a fic, written it, and then realized you were continuing a prior story? I have. This is it and I hope you are ready for some Sadness.

Hyperion City was relentless.

Her neon lights radiated out from the harsh dome that permeated the desert, reaching thick tendrils of greed and longing until her particular brand of hell clicked for someone. Until they came to her, and she tore them to shreds. She was the type of city that found every single flaw—every single one—and poked and prodded until they were all out, exposed and raw like a nerve ending. Hyperion ignored the good, ignored the redeeming qualities, and just waited for them to flinch.

And then she thrived.

After Maxcine, after the blood and cologne and the gun to his head, Juno was…empty. Felt empty. Numb. Betrayed, almost, but not quite because he _knew_ he deserved every ounce of hatred the man who was once his lover had thrown at him. Because _he could never love Juno the way he loved him_.

When the cases kept coming, even though all Juno wanted to do was dull the numbness with the cheapest alcohol he could find and stare out at the unforgiving, relentless city, Rita made him do his job. While nicely, and between watching her streams and eating handfuls of pretzels, she told him that he “couldn’t very well sit around all day, Mister Steel, since somebody’s gotta do something about all of this crime that’s piling up on my desk here, and since you won’t let me be a private eye all _I_ can advise as your HR is to say to _leave the office, Mister Steel, it’s been two weeks and I don’t work for free_ ,” even though Juno was pretty sure he was underpaying her and that she should have left him years ago.

So he did what she asked. He picked up a case. He thought he’d keep things interesting, and took the first one that came across his desk.

Well, he said _case_. He meant _death threat_.

Rita didn’t exactly specify what kind of case he had to do, Juno argued to himself as he looked at the readout, and if said case was actually a very detailed death threat from a crazed mobster over in Oldtown, what could she say?

It had been a while since Juno had gotten a death threat from a crime ring in Hyperion City. At least a week, he supposed, but it wasn’t like he really kept track.

This one was just the most interesting.

Rita just sent them through to his desk (usually printed out because heaven knew he couldn’t work a computer to save his life) and he added whatever threat it was to the growing pile of Things Juno Should Have Looked At In More Depth But He Didn’t And Then Someone Showed Up At His Door With A Gun Two Weeks Later. While only slightly smaller than the pile of Things Juno Looked At In More Depth But Then Gave To Rita Because He Didn’t Really Get Computers, it was still far too large and was probably why he found himself in far too many shitty situations.

It didn’t feel good, exactly, to know someone wanted him dead, but god what would he have given to cross paths with the last person who threatened his life?

So he took the case.

He would have taken it regardless, because death threats were the surest way to get him to show up somewhere and sometimes he thought he heard Hyperion City whisper that _he deserved it_ and _of course the world wants you dead, little monster, why wouldn’t it?_

Not because of the vain hope that this mobster threatening his life was actually another alias of a certain man from Brahma who could hold a gun to Juno’s head and who Juno could damn well still love.

While actual death threats were the surest way to get him to show up somewhere, they were overall not really an experience Juno had missed. Not because of the threat of death, but because they were usually followed with the whole being-kidnapped-in-the-dead-of-night-as-he-walked-to-his-car thing, which was such an inconvenience. But he guessed it came with this job, with this life, with his stupid goddamn choices.

They had grabbed him from behind—or was it his right? Juno couldn’t tell and it wasn’t like he could see out of that eye anyway—put a gun to his head, blindfolded him, and shoved him bodily into some shitty car that had pulled up out of a blind alleyway.

He liked to think he put up a fight, but it had been a long ass day, and _god_ he was so tired of being kidnapped. It was 1) exhausting, 2) really not worth his time and 3) resulted in shit that almost always could have happened without all of the broken noses.

So that was what brought him here: chained to some chair in a basement or warehouse or _somewhere_ , no laser cutter to break free, blindfolded with a proverbial knife to his throat.

A regular Tuesday, all things considered. Or whatever day it was at this point. It wasn’t like this particular crime ring had provided any real way to tell the time. Juno’s internal clock told him that he had been in this room—cell?—for at least thirty-six hours, because he had purpling bruises all over, was sleep-deprived, had been unchained a few times to piss, and his empty stomach gnawed.

While Juno would admit that he didn’t really care if he lived or died— _and nor should anyone else_ , a little voice inside him murmured—this was really not the way he wanted to go.

Somewhere in front of him, Juno heard the jangling of keys, the twisting of the doorknob, footsteps. In spite of himself, his heart thudded in his chest. Blinded, bound, at the mercy of whatever lackey was coming into his cell, Juno’s hands begin to shake.

“How nice of you to stop by,” Juno said impulsively, trying to control the tremor in his voice. “Sorry the place is such a mess. I’m thinking of doing some interior decorating—how would some pastel colors look, do you think?”

He heard a low grunt in reply. _Oh, good_ , he thought. _It was the big one_. His ribs and skin and face protested already, remembering the last time he came in.

Juno chuckled weakly. “I hope you brought some snacks this time around, big guy. I’m feeling a bit—”  
A fist slammed into Juno’s cheek.

He couldn’t have seen it coming, couldn’t have prepared himself, couldn’t have even tried to duck. His head snapped back; he saw stars. For a brief moment, Juno considered how nice it would have been to be floating up amongst those twinkling lights in the darkness, before he was jolted back into his consciousness.

Pain blossomed from his jaw. “Is that any way to treat a lady?”

A second fist connected with Juno’s face.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” Juno said, groaning with the pain of the second hit.

He tasted copper and tried not to think too hard about those implications. Juno spat the blood from his mouth and avoided looking at the crimson that was staining the cement. His blindfold had slipped down. Wincing at the light—it had been far too long since he had seen anything other than the back of his eyelid—Juno finally got a good look at his surroundings.

Juno’s cell was about as he had imagined. It looked to be a standard issue sketchy room somewhere in a rough part of Hyperion City: two bare light bulbs, no windows, one locked door and one seriously pissed off muscle-for-hire.

Yeah, it was the big guy, Juno confirmed with one glance, and this time he had a gun.

Definitely the way he wanted to spend his Tuesday.

“Whoa, whoa,” Juno stuttered, eying that silver blaster that had the easy power of putting a shot through his head and ending his shitty excuse for an existence. “Let’s not get hasty and do something at least one of us will regret.”

The man glared at him—if his expression had changed at all, Juno couldn’t really tell. “Stop talking.”

“I can definitely stop talking. That can be a thing that I can do—”

The hired muscle raised a fist and Juno flinched, expecting the hit to fall. He couldn’t help it, it was ingrained in him; it had been ingrained in him from too young an age. The man smirked at Juno’s reaction, pulling back his hand. The punch never landed and hot shame rushed over Juno.

“You call yourself a private eye?”

The shame sank deeper. “You call yourself an idiot?” he shot back defensively.

In one quick moment, the man trained the blaster on Juno.

All he could see was the barrel of the gun. Juno’s heart raced in his skull, in his veins, in his chest. Protesting, staying alive, as his heart had done the last time he was caught with a gun to his head— _not ready to die, not ready to die_. He tried to put up his hands, tried to make himself as small and nonthreatening as he could as he had taught himself to do in childhood, but both he and the man knew he was already as nonthreatening as he could be and shit there was nothing Juno could do.

Juno tried to make his voice come out evenly, but it swayed and wavered and broke. “I can’t exactly give you what you want if I’m dead, now can I?”

The gun cocked.

“I won’t say it a third time,” said the man.

Juno swallowed down his biting comment. His breaths came in shallowly. The gun was large and staring him down. He could practically trace the line the blast would take if the trigger was pulled, ending in a sorry target directly between his eyes.

“This is the last time I’ll ask: what do you know about Croesus Kanagawa’s drug transport system?”

Juno stared at the man, eyes wide. “I told you and all of those other thugs who came in the first time: I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Kanagawas are messed up, alright, but I’ve never heard of them moving drugs across Mars.”

The man squeezed the trigger, and Juno forgot to breathe.

A shot rang out.

The bullet grazed Juno’s shoulder. It _burned_.

“ _Goddammnit_!” Juno yelled against his will, his voice breaking in the middle. He writhed in his bonds, trying vainly to get free. Every inch he moved he felt himself tearing, bleeding, dying. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, alright? Croesus’s dead and Cass is in prison, so if anyone’s running whatever goddamn drug transport system you guys are all worked up about, it’s Cecil or Min. I might have worked for the Kanagawas before, but I haven’t heard of them moving drugs.”

The man frowned, moving the gun back up to Juno’s head.

He began to panic because _this was going to be the end_ and _this couldn’t be the end_ and, for once in his life, _he didn’t want to die_. Juno couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He just said whatever came into his head that might relate to the Kanagawas and whatever drug business this crime ring had decided they were involved in. The words came out breathlessly, in a rush. “Moving drugs doesn’t have enough drama for Cecil. He loves being in the middle of the spotlight and having everything on the streams. Min’s too cunning to let anyone know about anything she does, even Cecil. If they’re pushing drugs on the side, that’s their business and I haven’t heard about it.”

The man’s finger twitched on the gun and Juno flinched. He could see the thug’s cruel grin at his reaction.

“Hey. Listen. I don’t know anything,” Juno said quietly. A hair’s breadth from begging, though every word pained him. His voice shook. “If you’re gonna kill me, have it be over something that’s actually worth it to die for, alright? Goddamnit. Please.”

The man standing before Juno considered him for a long moment down the blaster barrel. Juno knew he was shaking but shit he couldn’t stop. His gun was steady, his glare was strong. The intent was there and for the second time in nearly as many weeks, Juno accepted it.

_Not ready to die, not ready to die_ but goddamnit, he was. His thoughts tumbled. Quickly, stumbling over one another: it was his fault that he was in this situation and it was his fault that this man didn’t believe him and it was his fault that Nureyev was gone and it was his fault—

“Okay,” said the man simply, and lowered the gun.

Juno blinked.

The man switched the blaster back from kill to stun. Juno exhaled unsteadily, not trusting himself to speak because he was _not ready to die_ and then he was _ready to die_ and then he was _not dead_ for the second time in as many weeks.

“If we need to meet with you again, we know where to find you,” the man continued.

He flipped the gun in his hand. Raised it. Juno flinched, the man laughed, and then the world went dark as the man pistol-whipped Juno across the head.


	2. sliver glinting knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno gets a ride home and sees a familiar face.

Hyperion City was a feat of modern engineering.

One might even say she was beautiful from a distance, with her neon skyline lighting up the Martian horizon, but up close? She was structures built on top of other structures, a mixture of architecture crowding and squeezing out the life force that had once pulsed deep within the city. She left behind grimy streets and alleyways that only the brave or the stupid dared to venture in.

Juno came to in one of these grimy alleyways, somewhere near the outskirts of Hyperion City. He tasted dust and dirt and blood and felt like absolute shit. That shining city of tomorrow with its neon skyline and its impregnable dome had never felt more far away, even though he was in the thick of it.

The world spun as he opened his eyes. Wait, no, eye. Right. That had been before the lovely rendezvous with the crime ring though, Juno forced himself to remember. Back with Nureyev and Miasma in the underbelly of the Martian desert and—

Juno cut off that line of thought at the start, like the head of a snake. He didn’t need that today. Didn’t need to think about the last time he had been chained to a chair with an unpleasant figure in front of him, blood streaming from his eye, thinking about how it all could have been avoided he had never met a certain master thief. Could have all been avoided if he had just stayed in his shitty apartment with his shitty job and his shitty alcohol.

He laid there for a moment, assessing himself, feeling for pain the way he had done for far too many mornings of his life.

A pounding, pulsing headache that he supposed was a mild concussion. Blossoming bruises on his jaw, ribs, wrists. Bloody lip from god knew when. Parched throat, empty stomach. Fifty percent of working vision. Exhaustion all the way through his core from being on-edge for days, from not sleeping, from the stress of having his life threatened over and over. That ever-present burning in his shoulder from _oh right,_ a gunshot.

All in all, Juno had woken up in worse shape.

He pushed himself off of the ground, taking a minute whenever the world spun too much. He found that his hands shook with minute trembles that he couldn’t stop.

Juno stumbled out of the alleyway, hands pressing against the filthy stone to steady himself. It was dusk, almost. Just past golden hour, which was thin and weak in Hyperion City and was followed shortly by the neon-lit darkness where under-the-table deals could be made with minimal bloodshed.

The street he emerged on was nearly deserted. On the outskirts of Hyperion City, definitely. He could almost make out the edge of the dome where it met the horizon. Near Oldtown, he wagered, because no one really glanced at Juno twice, even though he probably seemed like death had run him over in the main thoroughfare, then stopped, reversed, and run him down again because the first time wasn’t enough.

That’s how he felt, anyway.

The few people scuttling by Juno had these looks in their eyes of ingrained fear and wariness, like they expected to be mugged and left for dead at any moment, and decided that was perfectly fine, thanks.

Juno was pretty sure that was his default expression under a heavy layer of sarcasm and denial.

So yeah, he decided, he was near Oldtown, because you don’t leave Oldtown without a few bruises, split knuckles and the acceptance of death around every corner.

He reached in the pocket of his coat for his comms to call Rita (because she was definitely either completely freaking out and had contacted every police department on Mars or was so immersed in her streams she hadn’t even realized he had been gone; there was no in between) and came up empty. _Right_ , he remembered. Kidnappers were rarely so kind. That would be far too convenient.

He checked his other pockets too. No comms, no creds, but a hell of a lot of blood staining his jacket.

He really should invest in something blood-proof for once, he thought. Or just stop pissing off crime rings. Yeah, that would work too.

With no creds, no way to contact anyone and no way to get home besides his own two feet, Juno pushed off the wall, resigned to walking for who knew how long.

He didn’t even know what goddamn day it was.

Juno really hated getting kidnapped.

A newspaper, discarded in the morning rush, fluttered by, and he grabbed it, scanning the headlines. _O’Flaherty Poised to Win_ and _New! Kanagawa Special Tonight_ and _Mysterious Thefts Drag On_ flew past his eyes. Nothing new, nothing new.

He tried not to think too much about that string of thefts. Because that would bring him back to that bloodstained room, with one pair of unseeing eyes staring back at him (and the memory of one set of eyes belonging to a man dead twenty years), one blaster to his head and one kiss goodbye that he didn’t fucking deserve.

But there, the date. Mars still used the Earth calendar, after all these years.

September 23rd.

Oh.

_Oh._

Like his day couldn’t get any worse.

Juno flung the newspaper aside. It _had_ been three days since he was in his office. Three whole goddamn days, and then they let him go on the one day he wished he was anywhere but Mars. Anywhere but Hyperion City.

For a moment, he considered going back, letting whatever crime ring it was recapture him just so he didn’t have to be alone with his thoughts and his ghosts.

The bottom of a bottle of the worst liquor he could find sounded slightly more appealing than getting beaten half to death.

But only slightly.

He began to trudge down in the vague direction of his apartment when a black cab drove by. _Screw it_. Stumbling, Juno stuck out an arm, and the taxi screeched to a halt at Juno’s side.

He hadn’t called for a taxi and couldn’t pay for one, that was the hell sure, but he got in all the same and tried his best not to bleed out over the leather seats that had probably cost his rent twice over.

For a moment, when he pulled the door closed behind him, Juno thought he smelled it.

That woody, flowery, otherworldly scent. What he had smelled for weeks on end in his apartment, in his office, on his clothes. What he had smelled along with the tangy, decaying scent of blood and the smoke of a spent blaster card two short weeks ago.

Impossible and probable all at the same time.

His cologne.

But then the driver rolled down the windows, letting in the sharp autumn air, filling the car with the scent of rotting trees and regret and smog, and Juno chalked it all up to his frayed wits and spinning head.

Juno couldn’t get a good look at the driver as he told him his office address (blame his persecution complex, but he didn’t like giving out the location of his apartment). Dark shades, even though the sun had set, a hat with its brim pulled low, a popped jacket collar.

Juno couldn’t exactly blame the guy. The dome around this part of Hyperion City was fraying and cracked, letting in radiation every other minute.

He fixed his eyes on the road, watching as the dilapidated, ruinous buildings of Oldtown—of his childhood—faded into the distance, and the new high rises of downtown flashed before them. All neon lights and flashing ads and gilded doors, with the ever-present dust swirling between every car, between every person that walked down the street.

These days, Juno lived on the side of Hyperion City Central opposite from Oldtown. As far away as he could get from Oldtown while staying within the Hyperion dome, and staying somewhere he could still afford to make rent. Somewhere a bit cheaper than Hyperion Central. Bit rougher, too. Felt like home, some days, but on others it felt like he could never shake the Oldtown street kid he always had been.

It wasn’t like he exactly wanted to stick around at home, after.

After too many missed meals to count, after too many broken wrists and blackened eyes; some from home, some from the streets, some from the sewers. After taking too many backhanded slaps in jest and disgust from his mother, his friends, his teachers. After learning to fend for himself because there was no other goddamn way to survive.

Why Juno left Oldtown? There were too many reasons to count, but all of them— _all of them_ —came down to Benzaiten.

His better half. His reflection, who mirrored Juno’s actions and movements every day for nineteen years, making everything better. Laughing when Juno scowled, bandaging when Juno came back bruised and bleeding from a fight that wasn’t his, consoling when Juno just couldn’t take it anymore.

Juno’s better half, until one day Juno went home and he didn’t have a reflection anymore.

He didn’t come home again, after that.

It was twenty years to the day since Juno had lost his home. His better half. His brother. Twenty years to the day since Juno had knelt in front of his brother for the last time, blood covering his shaking hands, staring into those unseeing eyes so like his own.

The anniversary of Benten’s death. _God,_ how Juno wished he were dead too.

The bottom of a liquor bottle would have to suffice.

The cab pulled up outside Juno’s apartment, and the driver inclined his head expectantly at Juno.

Juno started, wiping his eyes ( _goddamnit_ he wasn’t crying). “Shit,” Juno began as he fumbled through his pockets before he remembered he didn’t have a single cred on him, trying to come up with a convincing lie. Cabbies were ruthless in Hyperion City—he’d investigated one too many murders of taxi passengers not to be a little on edge. “I lost my wallet back there a ways. Let me give you my card and you can bill my office,” Juno said, reaching into his jacket. He found nothing. “Shit, okay. Never mind. I can give you my comms number if you want to bill me that way. Otherwise, well. You’re out of luck.”

Juno eyed the man warily, looking for any sign of a knife or blaster so he could try to get in a punch or two before he was left to rot in some cold ditch in Hyperion City. His heart pulsed in his ears.

The driver merely nodded, casting his shaded gaze back on the road. _Huh_.

Juno quickly read off his comms number, one hand on the car door, not trusting his luck. He watched the man jot it down carelessly on a piece of paper and pen withdrawn from somewhere in his pants pockets before he stashed them away.

“Um,” Juno began haltingly. His door was halfway open, and he still didn’t really believe that he wasn’t currently being stabbed. “Thanks for the ride, I guess?”

He stepped outside, hearing the automatic lock of the car door closing behind him, and glanced up. He saw his apartment building.

“Hey,” Juno said, whirling around, eyes wide, hand automatically reaching for his blaster and coming up empty (he was pretty sure it was currently under some empty warehouse on the outskirts of the city, maybe being gambled in a game of blackjack or being used as a coaster for some whiskey way above his pay grade). He grabbed at the door handle. It was locked. “This isn’t my office.”

The window rolled down slowly. The driver leaned over. Juno caught the glint of a knife in the man’s sleeve and felt the tension build in his shoulders. Felt his hands clench into fists—the best alternative to his blaster, he supposed. Messier, but what option did he have?

Then the man lowered his sunglasses and stared at Juno with piercing, bright eyes. His lips— _oh, god, his lips; what would Juno have given to kiss them again_ —formed a slow, sharp smile. The man showed his fox’s teeth and Juno’s breath caught in his throat. The fight rolled out of him.

He hadn’t been imaging the cologne, after all.

“While you should get that shoulder checked out, I thought I would drop you off somewhere a bit more… _comfortable_ than your office, Juno. I’m sure they both would work quite well, though,” he said, and Juno melted because he looked altogether the same and completely different as the last time Juno saw him. All deadly smiles and cunning looks, but with a thin sheen of impulsiveness. Wearing not his heart on his sleeve but a silver, shining knife. A visual threat of violence that Juno wasn’t sure was meant for him but wasn’t sure if he cared either way. “I meant what I said the last time, Juno. I’ll be in touch. See you around.”

The cab sped off, and Peter Nureyev was gone.

Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's b a c k


	3. twenty-two messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno self-medicates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering what the Bad Idea was that I had when I started writing the fic, it's in here and it's from [a certain twitter exchange](https://the-oboe-hobo.tumblr.com/post/175725988037/voicesofreasons-podcastenthusiast-im-just). This may be the Most Sad thing I have ever written. Please know I tried to figure out a happy-ish ending but apparently?? not in this fic
> 
> Thanks for coming along on this adventure. Stay tuned for additional fics of Nureyev coming back set in this same story.

Hyperion City was the type of city that carefully hooked your heart. Curved hooks, those Martian harpoons, with sharp spikes on the end that prevented removal without irreparably damaging yourself. And didn’t she know it. First, her impossible neon skyline would intrigue you, and just when you got comfortable, she would cast her long line of damage out and hook your heart with a single barb.

Hyperion cast, and you sank. Always and forever, from the earliest days of the first colony to the last dusty sunset. That was how it worked. Hook, line, sinker.

Juno had tried to shield his heart after Hyperion City had won him over by force.

After everything, after years and years of Hyperion casting and hooking his heart over and over with that sharp dagger at his throat and that quiet, smooth whisper of _you don’t deserve anything good, do you, little monster?,_ Juno had tried his best to shield his heart. _God_ , he had tried, and how he had failed.

Because Juno’s heart didn’t just have Hyperion City’s hooks, now did it?

The cold sim-wind generated in Hyperion’s dome gusted around Juno, swirling the ever-present red dust and his long coat around him, but he barely felt it as he watched the black taxi recede into the growing darkness and haze of the city.

On the one day he wished he were anywhere but Mars, on the one day he wished he could feel nothing, Peter Nureyev had decided to return to Mars. Juno’s thoughts whirled and he found he couldn’t stop them even though they made him choke. _Why did he come back_ and _did he ever leave_ and _he can never love you as much as you love him_ and _you’ll never be worth anything_ and _I thought your brother was you when I pulled the trigger_.

Juno’s vision blurred, the world going all watery and orange-tinged gray as he watched those taillights fade. Twin lights, winking out of existence as quickly as they had come into Juno’s life again. His eyes stung and his throat was tight and Juno wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself together.

_God_ , what would he give to feel nothing at all?

He dug his fingers into the blaster wound that grazed his shoulder and the pain shot through his body. Grounded him. The world became a little sharper and a little meaner with every heartbeat that coursed through his veins.

Groaning, Juno turned his back on the city. Walked into his apartment building, turned the key that somehow hadn’t been taken from him by the Oldtown mob. He climbed the four flights slowly, his footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell like gunshots. If he thought about it too hard, his footsteps sounded not unlike the blasterfire he had heard in the past two week that should have ended him but didn’t and _Juno didn’t know how to live with himself._

With the turn of a doorknob, Juno let himself into his dingy apartment for the first time in three days. While it was small and cramped and smelled like shitty alcohol and cheap takeout from the shop down the street ( _and not the cologne of the man who put a gun to his head_ ), Juno had never been more relieved to step onto that faded carpet. He shrugged out of his bloodstained coat quickly and dropped it onto the closest chair, hoping he wasn’t staining too many case files with his blood but couldn’t really bring himself to care.

There, on the scratched coffee table, was the opened bottle of whiskey from last week. The first sight of that evening he had been grateful to see. That was a lie, his mind told him, but Juno was just so ready to be _numb_.

Wincing at the sudden movement that jarred his shoulder, he raised the bottle in a toast. “To you, Benten,” Juno whispered hoarsely, and brought the bottle to his lips.

It burned on the way down, just as he remembered. Juno wanted nothing more than to be been swallowed whole in that burning, to have it envelop his person. He would have been one step closer to a funeral pyre, after all. One step closer to his brother.

Juno took another deep drink to dull the world; to dull the thoughts of the sharp knife in the sleeve of a man with teeth as sharp as the edges of his knives; to dull the image of the heavy metal door of the cremation chamber swinging shut on the cardboard box that held his brother’s broken body.

His shoulder still burned, still bled. Juno went to set the bottle down before he went to retrieve his mediocre first aid kit from underneath the bathroom sink—buying a better one would imply that he thought he deserved not to hurt—but thought better of it. Clutching the amber bottle, Juno grabbed the antiseptic and a clean bandage from the tiny bathroom in the corner of his apartment, leaving bloody fingerprints along his drywall as he went.

He made to go back into his shitty living room, to lick his wounds and self-medicate (and ignore the commonsense thoughts that sounded suspiciously like Rita telling him to _go to the Hyperion General Hospital, you just got a gunshot wound Mister Steel_ ), but he passed the kitchen. His stomach ached in the empty way he was all too familiar with (blame his shitty childhood). _God_ , how long had it been since he’d eaten? Too long, probably. It had been three days, right? Most people ate daily. Most people ate more often than they passed out on the couch or bed or wherever after drinking too much cheap liquor, he reminded himself.

What wouldn’t he give for someone to just take care of him in that moment? For someone to lovingly set out a sandwich for him and bandage his wounds and kiss his forehead with the words _it’s all right, my little monster, nothing will hurt you again, Ma promises, all right?_

His throat was tight again, his eyes stinging and Juno knew he was clenching his fist so tight his fingernails were in danger of breaking skin.

He crossed the kitchen. Reached into the fridge for the cloned raspberry jam— _just like the kind Ma used to buy before she got bad_ —and came up empty. Checked the cupboards for his bread, and found it molding.

_Right_. He didn’t deserve even this comfort.

Juno pulled out a half-empty jar of peanut butter—at least _that_ was still edible—a butter knife from the drawer, and then finally, _finally_ sat down on his couch.

Next to where he found the current bottle he was nursing laid his backup comms. Rita had convinced him to buy a backup or two—they were cheap, if you knew where to get them—to replace all of the ones he went through on the regular.

Dully, taking a drink of the whiskey whenever he felt like it, Juno opened his comms and flicked through his missed calls.

Sixteen from Rita (no surprise there, though Juno felt a warm jolt of gratitude flood through him because _at least she cared enough if he lived or died_ ), three from local numbers Juno didn’t recognize, one from Mick, and one from an unknown number.

Not really caring, Juno opened his voicemail.

“You have _twenty-one_ new messages, and _one_ archived message,” the automated voice of his comms announced. “Would you like to play them all? Please say _yes_ to play all messages, _delete_ to delete all messages—”

“Yes,” Juno said sharply, his annoyance spiking.

“ _First_ new message from _Wednesday_ at _twelve twenty-seven pm._ ”

He set his phone to play on speaker, and let his messages play out, not really listening.

“Hi, Mister Steel, this is Rita calling from Rita’s House of Mystery Solving. _OH,_ _WAIT,_ this is _Detective_ Rita calling from Rita’s House of Mystery Solving. That’s _so much better_ than _boring_ “Juno Steel Detective Agency”. I still really think we should rename it to something a little more _flashy_ , you know? Something with…RITA! We could be in the _streams_ with a name like that, _boss_ —”

Juno didn’t know he had a headache before he started listening to his voicemails. He clicked ahead a few voicemails—it always took Rita a little while to get to the point—and carefully unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it halfway off to get to his angry blaster wound.

“Mister Steel, this is Rita from Rita’s…well, you know. Just wondering if you were coming into the office today, boss, since I’m getting really lonely and my streams aren’t working today and—”

Taking a deep breath, Juno smeared some antiseptic on his wound and swore a blue streak at the sudden stinging pain. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a deep drink, trying to dull the world a little more.

“MISTER STEEL, THIS IS RITA AND IF YOU DON’T ANSWER YOUR COMMS THIS INSTANT—”

Juno clicked ahead.

“Boss, this is Rita and I don’t want to make you nervous or anything but I’m getting a little worried about you since it’s been a _whole day_ since I’ve seen you and normally I don’t try to worry because you sometimes have to go off and spend time by yourself and I understand that—okay, I actually don’t because I _always_ have to see at least Franny—”

He tied off the bandage that he pulled out of the sterile packaging and took another drink.

A new voice filled his apartment living room, one of the local numbers. “Is this the phone of Detective Steel? Your secretary gave me this number, and I was wondering—”

Juno clicked past that message, and the following two local calls, back from a day or so ago when Rita was still sending his number out to new clients. He could deal with that whenever he made it into his goddamn office.

“Boss, this is Rita. I’m getting a little concerned about you since I went by your apartment and you weren’t there and I asked your friends and they haven’t seen you and I even called Captain Khan and—”

Juno set aside his first aid kit, ignoring that he was probably already bleeding through the bandage he had put on his shoulder, and pulled his shirt back on. Grabbed the peanut butter—hating himself—and scraped some out from the bottom.

Rita was on her last message, now, his comms had announced. “ _Nineteenth_ new message, from _today_ at _five thirteen am_ ,” and Juno had felt himself sink deeper into that ever-present hatred because he had made her worry, even though she shouldn’t have even thought of him.

Her voice was hesitant, this time around. “Mister Steel, this is Rita. I really hope you’re all right. I went and did some research on all of the possible leads I could find and even that new case but I couldn’t find anything even though I went to the HCPD—who were _no help,_ which was not a surprise at all but I figured I would check anyway--and I just don’t know what do to. I’m just _scared_ Mister Steel. The last time you disappeared like this you told me to close up the office and you were gone for two weeks and came back with only one eye and I don’t want that to happen again, boss, and—”

The message timed out.

“ _Twentieth_ new message,” the automated voice of his comms announced. “From _today_ at _one oh-three pm_.”

“Hey, J, it’s Mick. I know it’s not the best day to call—hell, any day isn’t a good one to call you these days—but I know what today means for you and I thought this morning that hey, maybe we could go and get a drink. I’m buying. Let me know and I’ll meet you over in Oldtown all right, buddy? Or wherever you want. If you want to come with. It’s totally up to you.”

If Juno was finally numb it wasn’t from the alcohol. He brushed away the tears he knew were making their way down his face and tried not to remember. He took another drink.

“ _Twenty-first_ new message _,_ from _today_ at _ten forty-two_ _pm._ ”

At first, it was just static.

But then.

“Hello, Juno,” said the voice of the man who haunted and blessed his dreams and who Juno couldn’t go a day without thinking of. “Thanks for the phone number. I’ll be sure to bill your office. I could come by and settle the bill myself—there are… _other_ forms of payment, detective—but I thought this would suffice.”

Juno couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He swore he could smell that cologne, faint and otherworldly, because _he was listening to Peter Nureyev’s voice_.

The voicemail continued. “I am sorry to leave you—” Juno could swear he paused, and all Juno could think of was how _he_ left Nureyev in that hotel all those weeks ago, “—so quickly, but I had some errands to run. Diamonds to steal; papers to plant. You know how it goes.

“But Juno, well. I meant what I said. I’ll see you around. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. I know I’m breaking my promise to you, to leave Mars and never return, but I was made an offer I couldn’t very well refuse, and now I suppose our worlds have collided once more.

“You surprised me on the first part of that job, Juno. I hope you can forgive me. I let my emotions get the better of me, but well…you did break my heart, Juno Steel. I would say I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t want to lie to you. Not again.

“I do hope to see you, my dear detective, but if that isn’t what you want, we’ll speak no more of it.”

The messaged clicked off, and Juno was once again left alone with his thoughts and his whiskey and his burning shoulder.

Nureyev shouldn’t be sorry for what he did. Juno deserved everything Nureyev—everything the world—threw his way and more, and goddamn if he wasn’t prepared to pay whatever price was demanded of him if his paths could cross with a certain thief with sharp teeth and a fox’s smile once more.

“End of _new messages_ ,” the automated voice called, and Juno jumped. “Beginning _archived message_.”

“Hey, Super Steel,” said a voice gone twenty years, the voice of Juno’s reflection, the voice of Juno’s home that he hadn’t had since he was nineteen.

Juno shattered. The tears poured out of him, angry and hot and wrenching straight from his gut. The man that voice belonged to should have been happy and dancing through the streets of Hyperion City and making fun of Juno at every turn and not cremated and buried ten feet underground in the outskirts of the dome. G _oddamnnit_ he shouldn’t have been because _that should have been Juno—that gunshot was meant for Juno._

“Just wondering when you’re coming home again! Sorry I missed your last call. Mom was being…well, you know. Sounds like the police academy is cool though! You’ll have to show me all of your moves when you get home. But whatever police moves you have probably can’t beat a pirouette. You’ve got to let me show you how to _at least_ do a pirouette, Super Steel. Who needs sharpshooting when you can dance! You’d be the talk of the academy, Juno, I’m telling you. Anyway! Let me know when you’re coming home. Talk to you soon! Byeeee!”

The last message Benzaiten Steel ever left clicked off.

Juno snapped his comms shut before the automated message could permeate his apartment, before it could remind Juno that the message was _archived_ and _would he like to delete all archived messages_ because Juno could never give up on Benten, even after Juno had given up on himself, even after his brother was long gone and the only memories of him were dying with time.

Juno sobbed until he had no more tears left in him, until he was nearly dry heaving and the salt had dried on his face. And then he drank because _hell_ the only man he had ever really loved had threatened his life and wasn’t sorry and the only family he had ever really had was dead.

Juno drank until he couldn’t feel.

He knew Hyperion City was laughing at him, in her silent neon way, but he didn’t care. Her hooks were deep in his chest, the same way that the knowledge of Benten’s laugh and Nureyev’s lips were found locked away behind his sternum and his ribs.

Peter Nureyev might have come back for Juno, but Benzaiten never could.

And Juno could never forgive himself.


End file.
